Milhous m’enerve

Milhous can irritate in several languages. In addition to English,( in which he is largely incomprehensible due to his brain moving faster than his tongue, and poor socialization  in early childhood), he speaks his own strangled French, German and Spanish. My language skills are very poor. As a bossy know-it-all, it maddens me that Milhous must be relied upon when we travel abroad.  He,of course, revels in his prowess and my deficiency. This time in Paris, not content with grandstanding at the guichet, the bureau de change and the quincaillierie, he dragged me to the Beth Din restaurant just so he could show off in Hebrew. At our apartment, he watches children’s programs in Vietnamese and the news in Bulgarian.  It is very trying.

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Drinking it all in

It is raining in Paris. It has been all day. Milhous and I invested in a couple of parapluie and set off bravely in the direction of the Center Pompidou for our daily dose of culture. When we got there, dripping wet, there was a long queue snaking soggily across the front of the building. The piazza, normally filled with street performers and an admiring audience, was damp and deserted. We repaired to a cafe and ordered a bottle of champagne. There is more than one way to absorb French culture.

 

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A moment of intimacy in the elevator

In common with most of the global female population, I have shunned intimate contact with Milhous Vile. That situation has dramatically shifted this weekend. We are in Paris, but the change of my status from untouched to despoiled is nothing to do with the city of love, its cheap wine, marvelous chocolate or chansons d’amour.

We are staying in  a (two bedroom) apartment I found through airbnb. The apartment, just steps from the Bourse, is the last word in Parisian chic. It is on the fifth floor of an apartment building accessed by a wide and heavy front door at street level. Inside the lobby, there is a tiny elevator. It say it holds 3 personnes, but these would have to be pygmies or Parisian models. Milhous and I are an uncomfortably tight fit.  Wedged in wedding night poses, we avoid eye contact as we ascend or descend. It is like sharing a particularly uncomfortable and inappropriate cocoon. On the top or bottom floor we spill out like ungainly twins birthed at more than 40 weeks.  I wish I had the knees for stairs.

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Our Garden: More Ghetto than Grotto.

Peggoty’s garden pond is something special.  Water streams  from a  giant pearly shell into the crystalline deep. Fairy fronds of bright green weed trail artistically across the water’s calm and alluring surface. Silvery shafts of sunlight bounce off the surrounding stones and dapple the dewy grass. It is a pond any frog would be proud to call home. Indeed, were a frog to be kissed by a Princess who then offered a spawning space in her palace or penthouse, a wise frog would spurn the suggestion and opt to stay with Peggoty.  Of course, there are frogs in her pond.

There are also frogs in our pond where a muddied length of plastic tubing drips dismally into stagnant water silted up with old leaves, grass cuttings and broken bits of plastic bucket (the only evidence we did once try to clean it out). Weeds creep across our uneven pavers. We are not strangers to slime. Our frogs are favela frogs, living among rubbish, and starved of beauty and opportunity. If they are princes, they have a really poor deal. This is truly a Grimm existence and young lovelies passing our pond are more likely to wince, flinch or retreat than to pucker up. Luckily frogs are famously upwardly mobile–maybe they can one day make the leap to a better amphibian address?

 

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Thank God for Sunday

I bolted out of bed at 6:15am, already worrying about the first three things I would need to tackle at the office. In the midst of a contemplative moment in the bathroom, it dawned that today is not Monday. I went back to bed and listened to a great edition of BBC Radio 4′s Desert Island Discs featuring Damien Hirst. It is now 7:15am. Monday to Friday at this time I would be pounding along  Route 50. Instead, today I am drinking coffee and eating reheated cheesy leek and ham macaroni bake  left over from yesterday. In the yard, the first of my darkest irises is now in bloom. The day is also unfurling. I am happy.

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What WAS I Thinking?

I have turned into a comic composite of a seaside landlady, a pantomime dame and Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Boo-Kay).

In all the other photos taken at Tom and Mike’s wedding (photos of the grooms to follow–I promise), people look like their best selves: smiling, soignee and sophisticated. Look at the women who surround me in the shot below, taken during the ceremony. They are looking at the happy pair, and have serene smiles on their perfectly composed features. Not me. What was I doing? Of course, I have no idea, which would seem to indicate nothing out of the ordinary had sparked this look— a cross between a horse approaching a particularly terrifying jump at the Grand National and Sister Wendy admiring Pre-Raphaelite cherubs.

I fear I must conclude that, like Sarah Ferguson, the former Duchess of York, I am prone to the kind of excessive self-expression that does not photograph well. With looks like these, I could play the red queen in Alice In Wonderland, but I fear the glamorous Hollywood roles will not come my way.

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A very 17th Street sort of Wedding

I know there will be griping because I have no good pictures of the grooms. No sooner had the celebrant pronounced Tom and Mike married than they were darting about pressing each of their 120 guests to a drink–and then another and perhaps a third. I couldn’t manage my camera, my bag and my glass so the camera was quickly jettisoned.  Just yards away, in front of the U.S. Capitol, at least 26 Korean brides in Barbie-pink netting were being photographed from every angle: in the Hummer, out of the Hummer, on the steps, by the security guard, and under the dogwoods.  There would have been a certain delicious irony in our happy couple having their image captured on the steps of the Supreme Court (take that Judge Thomas) but the moment escaped us.

The bar staff on the patio at Johnny’s Half Shell (tagline: seafood specialities and strong drinks) had clearly under-estimated the demand for gin. Supplies were exhausted before the entire Cavanagh connection had had their glasses filled. (I need hardly explain that they were first to the bar.) The situation was quickly saved, thus averting a need to race back to 17th street, where the wedding party had been swarming for several days.

17th street is home to Cairo Liquors, a reliable purveyor of gin. Tom and Mike chose to be registered at this store: “Well, it’s the only thing we really NEED”.  Tom, a homemaker, has been delighted in recent weeks to answer a knock at the door and find a succession of gentlemen weighed down by cases of Maker’s Mark, Dewars, and Bombay Sapphire. Just as well he’s now a married man…

Much of the pre and post wedding action centered on 17th Street NW. Skip’s tour of historic houses in Dupont Circle culminated with drinks at Dito’s bar.  Dain, a 17th street resident, master-minded Cigars Under the Stars, a bachelor party involving double bourbons and Double Maduros for the double grooms.

I was coiffed by Tina at Fiddleheads, also on 17th street, who beat my barnet into submission so my hair would fit under my hat.  I had my toes done locally too, but went to Neiman Marcus where the marvelous Mimi tattooed me with make-up  ”No need to worry–it will stay all day” she promised. The eyeliner was still in place this morning.

On Friday night around 30 of us crossed Connecticut Ave to get to the Malaysia Kopitiam for the rehearsal dinner. For this food, I too would get married.  On Saturday, after the revelry on Capitol Hill, we were back in the boys’ alley just off 17th street –well, those wedding gifts from Cairo Liquor won’t drink themselves.

On Sunday morning, the last ones standing repaired to Annie’s for brunch. Much oohing and aahing over the very booth and stained glass window featured in Lucy Knisley’s illustration which formed the wedding invitation. More drinks.

Peggy and Kenny had made it all the way home to Tampa by the time we left Annie’s. Julia, Steve and I (the hard core) crossed 17th Street with Tom and Mike as the bells from the Foundry United Methodist Church sounded a glorious peal. Time to start happily ever after.

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Irish Much?

Tonight for dinner I made a big bowl of boiled potatoes and buttered cabbage with salt and pepper. I washed it down with a glass of port. The day is much improved.

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Photos of the week–Itchy Ankle, MD

This gallery contains 9 photos.

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The Full Irish Breakfast–Itchy Ankle Style

2013-03-17 12.34.18The world has been swimming in front of my eyes since St Patrick’s day. There are those who will blame my Black Velvet cocktails (Guinness, Pro Secco, and just a suspicion of  Gin)  but I attribute my seasickness to a new pair of spectacles.  For the first time, I have progressive lenses (“my dear–even her very lenses are progressive–that’s what 13 years in the nation’s capital will do”) and thus I can no longer look sideways at people without falling over. This is a shame as shooting sideways glances has been one of my very few forms of exercise.  My frames are green, naturally, and overall my vision is much improved. I can see at a distance and up close and when last I checked I can still look askance, even if not askew, so that’s a blessing.

2013-03-17 12.34.25The Itchy Ankle neighbors convened on Sunday at the Blarney abode, glad of St Patrick’s day when the whole world is invited to start drinking early in the day and on an empty stomach. The Guinness recipes were courtesy of Henry Dimbleby (check them out here) and no-one came to too much grief, even if they did not have my beer goggles as an excuse for stumbling and staggering.  I used my own recipes for the food and deconstructed the full Irish breakfast for which my native island is justly famed. ( “It will set you up rightly, so it will”). I made a savory bread pudding which involved onions, bacon, cubes of bread, 18 eggs, a lot of cream and half a pound of Irish cheddar.

2013-03-17 12.44.05  Sausages slow-cooked in honey with rosemary were a hit and so was a salad with fingerling potatoes, mache, avocado, more bacon and honey mustard dressing.

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Jeffrey’s dad made delicious cinnamon and raisin bread which I passed off as a tea loaf, and Gretel’s grocery provided a decent shrimp salad. I also cooked a number of racks of lamb, but they were eaten before I had a chance to take a snap.

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2013-03-17 12.34.06Peggoty and Ms. Monroe did their usual convincing leprechaun and sprite impersonations and Barkis channeled his inner Finn MacCool. There was no banshee behavior. Speaking of little people, Spud Hughes sent the picture below from Belfast.  Fine and well he’s looking. Or maybe my new specs aren’t as good as I’d like to think they are.

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